Читать книгу: «Good Time Girl»

KATA O’MARA

Good Time Girl

COPYRIGHT

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

Copyright © Kate O’Mara 1993

Kate O’Mara asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780006472599

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2017 ISBN: 9780008252687

Version: 2017-03-27

DEDICATION

To Ted Rhodes, in happy memory

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

1

The studio was dark, silent and tense. The crew, technicians and production team were shrouded in shadow. Only the actors in their little world of a make-believe art gallery were illuminated in a bright pool of light. They stood poised ready to spring into life at a given cue – a flamboyant wave of a white handkerchief from Larry Matthews, the highly eccentric, camp floor manager/PA/script editor/general right-hand man to Hugh Travis, the producer. Larry always used this rather overt method of cueing, claiming that the actors could see it easily in their peripheral line of vision. He was right, of course; the slightest movement from anyone on the studio floor could be misinterpreted as a cue by an actor already fraught with nerves. Larry was usually right about most things. He ran the studio, and indeed the series, like a tight ship, loved and feared by actors and technicians alike. Now he stood, his head encased by ‘cans’, keeping an ever-vigilant eye on the monitor that was suspended above his head. The cameramen adjusted focus. The boom operators pushed the microphones in and out of the set, paying them out and winding them in again like trout flies, checking and rechecking for shadows. It was the soundmen’s difficult task to position the booms so as to be able to pick up every nuance from the actors. They had to achieve this without getting into shot, yet be near enough to hear even the most inaudible player. There was no difficulty with the experienced performers but the newcomers and those who had not had theatrical experience always posed problems.

Larry, ever watchful, glanced briefly around the studio, then up again at the monitor. Where -

A tall fine figure of a man, with a remarkably even golden tan and deep-set vivid blue eyes was threading his way through the hustle and bustle of Mayfair. His silver hair was a touch too long for a banker or a barrister, and proclaimed him at once a man connected with the arts. Women’s heads turned as he strode confidently along, his gaze firmly fixed ahead, a slightly worried look on his handsome chiselled features.

Back on the studio floor, Larry suddenly yelled, ‘Coming out of telecine in two minutes,’ thereby quelling even the faintest murmur of chatter and quiver of movement. The brightly lit actors braced themselves for the fray. The trick was to look and act perfectly naturally in a completely unnatural situation, the actor having to start exactly on Larry’s cue. In this instance, the responsibility lay with Geoffrey Armitage, an old hand at the game, who played Paul McMaster in the series, and Amy Brindle, a relative newcomer, who played Sophie, his receptionist, and who was learning fast.

Paul arrived at his destination and glanced up briefly with an air of ill-concealed pride at the name displayed above the premises. ‘McMasters’ it announced in discreet gold roman lettering on a very dark green ground. He paused for a moment to glance at the superb seventeenth-century Flemish painting that was the sole exhibit in the window, then pressed the intercom. A distorted voice responded immediately.

‘Good morning, sir.’ A buzzing sound indicated that he was given admittance.

‘Stand by, studio. Coming out of telecine in one minute!’ Larry’s voice was now lower both in volume and pitch, and had the effect of concentrating everyone wonderfully. His eyes were staring at the monitor.

‘Morning, Sophie.’

‘Paul, thank goodness you’re here. Helen has been on the phone. There’s been some sort of mix-up over the German consignment.’

Paul McMaster put a weary hand to his brow. ‘Oh God, can’t she handle it? I’ve got a meeting this morning.’

‘There’s a fax from Mr Van Geldes from Amsterdam, about the exhibition at the Rijksmuseum.’

‘Yes, good. I was expecting that, anything else?’

‘Yes,’ said Sophie, looking embarrassed, ‘your brother …’

‘What’s he done now?’

‘I’m afraid he may be responsible for the confusion over the Hamburg shipment,’ she replied, becoming more flustered by the minute.

Paul sighed heavily. ‘All right, I’ll deal with it,’ he said resignedly, and crossed to the back of the shop. Sophie watched him go, then turned back to her desk with a troubled expression on her face.

There was a door leading to an outer office and a further door to an outhouse where restoration work and packing was carried out.

‘Coming out of telecine in ten seconds, nine, eight, seven, six, five …’ Five to zero were mimed by Larry using the fingers of one hand followed by the famous flourish of the white handkerchief descending in the manner of one starting a race and Geoffrey Armitage slipped smoothly and expertly through the studio office door, which exactly corresponded with the one in the telecine, and so achieved the transition from film to live studio. He spoke his lines on cue easily and effortlessly, with just the right amount of energy and charm to make him immensely watchable and adored by several thousand female admirers.

‘Who said you could use my office?’ snapped Paul McMaster.

An extremely good-looking man in his middle thirties was lounging nonchalantly in the leather captain’s chair with his feet up on the desk in front of him.

Paul’s errant younger brother, Tom, was played by Simon Lavell, a dark and rather arrogant young man who seemed to find difficulty in separating his screen persona from that of his own. Used to acting opposite each other, Simon and Geoff played to the end of the scene expertly.

‘And we have a recording break there. Reposition cameras three and four in the McMaster apartment – as quickly as you can and no talking, PLEASE.’ Larry’s stentorian tones produced an immediate effect and there was absolute silence. He was tall, blond, good-looking, in his early forties, an exactor who possessed those magical qualities so necessary in the aspiring thespian, confidence, authority and charisma. The whole studio, actors and crew alike, recognized it and respected it. The change-over to the McMaster flat was effected very quickly and quietly. Helen McMaster, Paul’s estranged wife, played by Bella Shand, an extremely glamorous brunette in her middle forties, was reclining on a chaise longue, sumptuously clad in coral-pink chiffon and feathers. The McMasters was originally created for her by Hugh seven years ago and she revelled in her position as star of the show.

‘Ready treasure?’ asked Larry affectionately. Bella was an old trouper and they enjoyed a mutual respect.

Bella, who was entangled in a telephone flex, whilst attempting to look sultry and poised, said, ‘I look and feel extremely awkward and uncomfortable, but apart from that, I’m raring to go.’

‘You don’t actually, darling. You look lovely as always,’ replied Larry soothingly. ‘Ready everyone?’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘And standby in the office set, we’re coming straight over to you after this – no pause take your cue from Terri,’ Larry had raised his voice so as to be heard by the actors on the nearby set, where the cameras were all ready for the opening shot. ‘You look gorgeous, darling,’ repeated Larry, as he observed Bella still wriggling surreptitiously.

‘I look like a fucking flamingo, and you know it,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘Agreed, but a very lovely one.’

Larry’s hand swept dramatically down. Bella glided effortlessly into the telephone conversation, any problem with the offending wire completely forgotten.

‘Paul?’ Her voice was a deep rich contralto, the voice of a woman who was either a chain smoker or imbibed heavily in gin, vodka or possibly both. ‘Paul? Thank God – no listen. Trouble … Yes. Big trouble … Yes, yes …’ She sighed dramatically. ‘Of course, what else? Just keep quiet and listen. De La Tour … Yes, the one that went to Hamburg. Yes. Are you sitting down? Well, you’d better. It’s a fake.’

As Bella finished the sentence, Terri, the assistant floor manager on the adjoining set, cued Geoff, who, as Paul McMaster, had been perched on the edge of the desk and now rose like a pheasant rocketing from a hedgerow.

‘What!’

Tom, who was wandering aimlessly around the office with his hands in his pockets, stopped in his tracks at his brother’s outburst. At this moment, the outer office door opened and a petite blonde entered. She was gorgeously pretty, like a Barbie doll. Paul cupped his hand over the phone.

‘Yes, Gemma. What is it?’

‘Sorry to interrupt you s-sir,’ lisped Gemma breathlessly, ‘but there’s been an accident in the workroom. Young Billy’s cut his hand on the gilly – guillotine.’

Patsy Hall, playing Gemma, was regarded by the rest of the cast as a nonactress. She had been cast by Hugh in a weak moment, having been totally bowled over by her undeniably gorgeous looks and figure. He had felt, rightly, as it transpired, that she would boost the series’ ratings. Unfortunately, she was virtually talentless. As soon as she made her entrance it became apparent that she was ill at ease – and she had fluffed her first line.

Larry, watching like a hawk, but all the while listening on his head-cans to the candid comments coming from the gallery, waited to be told to suspend operations. The gallery was the enclosed glass sanctum high above the studio floor from which the production team directed the show. The director, in this instance, Scott Dudley, quite literally called the shots. Larry rolled his eyes with a ‘Gawd help us’ expression as Patsy then bumped into the filing cabinet, and the scene jerked awkwardly on, the other actors attempting to rescue it, but the rhythm and flow had been disturbed and much to everyone’s relief the sound boom appeared in shot.

‘Okay, hold it everyone,’ intoned Larry, listening to the string of expletives from his earphones. ‘Yes – yes – uh-huh … Yes, I couldn’t have phrased it better myself … Patsy, dear,’ said Larry loudly, turning his attention to the miscreant, ‘the director says we’re going again, and can you possibly manage even an approximation of the text – it’s vital, dear, as we’re using one of your lines to cut to another shot. Oh, never mind,’ he amended as he saw Patsy’s look of total bewilderment. ‘Just remember the lines and don’t bump into the furniture.’

This last was delivered in the clipped tones of Noël Coward. The whole studio chuckled quietly and there was a shout of raucous laughter from Bella, still on her chaise longue, waiting to do another very brief cutaway scene.

‘Standby to go again, studio,’ said Larry in a long-suffering voice. The boom operator shrugged his apologies to Larry. ‘Don’t mention it, dear,’ was the swift reply. ‘It was as welcome as the relief of Mafeking.’

The next time Patsy got it right, but her performance was dull and wooden. Up in the gallery, Scott Dudley was making his opinions known.

‘She’s appalling! She can’t move, she can’t speak, she can’t act – what the fuck can she do?’ he asked, clutching his forehead in disbelief. ‘I mean apart from that,’ he added, seeing the expressions of his colleagues. ‘Look at her, it’s pathetic. Oh God, I can’t bear it. Cut to camera one,’ he said curtly to his assistant, Pam.

‘It’s not his shot yet,’ replied Pam instantly.

‘I can’t help it. Punch up one,’ he insisted.

The remainder of Patsy’s speech was heard out of vision over a close-reaction shot on Tom.

Pam was Scott’s girlfriend. He was heavily married with teenage children, but his affair with Pam had been progressing steadily now for three years. She was devoted to him and was also very good at her job.

‘And cut to Paul,’ barked Scott, switching to a reaction shot on Geoff earlier than was planned.

Geoff noted the red light on the camera that was trained on him come on and reacted accordingly. He was secretly pleased; he was having a very intermittent affair with Patsy, but knew she was totally untalented.

The scene finally finished.

‘Thank you, studio, that’s a clear!’ Larry bellowed. Then: ‘God, what a load of bullshit!’ he muttered to himself as he removed the head-cans. ‘I hope this looks better than it plays.’

2

‘Yes, that’s right, McMasters, Cork Street, as soon as you can.’ A shot of an ambulance tearing across London from McMasters as the theme music surged accompanied the closing credit titles. Claire Jenner switched off the TV with the remote control unit and sank back against the pillows. The McMasters had deteriorated over the years, she thought. There was a time when she had wanted to be in it. It had been a terrific series when it had first started, full of drive, with punchy and original dialogue. Now the actors were still doing their best with the scripts they were given, but it was becoming decidedly cosy. It needed a kick up the arse, an injection of new life, a sparkling new character perhaps, or story line.

Claire gazed listlessly around the room. Why the hell was she worrying about a TV series? She was quite convinced she would never work again. Anyway, how could she? She was unattractive, undesirable – unnecessary. No one wanted her. Well, Roger didn’t at any rate. The tears started to well up inside her. She heard the clatter of her friend Sal in the kitchen making soup. Dear Sal. Claire would never have come through this without her. The tears coursed unbidden down her cheeks at the thought of her friend’s cheerfulness and kind understanding. The door of the bedroom burst open.

‘Have I missed the end? Damn. What happened?’ Sal demanded, entering and plonking herself down on the end of the bed. ‘Soup won’t be a moment.’

‘Nothing much,’ replied Claire, trying to sound normal, ‘Billy cut his hand and was carted off to hospital. The preceding forty-five minutes were so dull I nodded off.’

‘Dear God, it’s getting more like The Archers every week – what’s the matter with you?’ Sally interrupted herself to look at her friend suspiciously. ‘You haven’t been blubbing again, I hope?’ There was a painful pause as Claire tried to regain control of her feelings to no avail.

‘I miss him,’ she whispered miserably. ‘Oh, Sal, I loved him so much,’ and she burst into uncontrollable sobbing.

Sally was apparently unmoved by this spectacle. ‘Really?’ she said dryly, ‘I suppose it’s possible to love a turdfaced piece of shit –’

‘Don’t speak about him like that,’ protested Claire between sobs. ‘He’s beautiful …’

‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ observed Sally sagely, relenting and putting her arms round her friend’s shoulders. ‘What he did wasn’t very pretty, though, was it?’ she asked gently.

‘No,’ agreed Claire, brokenly trying to overcome her sobbing. Eventually she said, ‘Sal …’

‘I’m here.’

‘Sal, I wish I could have had the baby.’

Neither of them said anything for a long while.

Claire’s childhood had been almost idyllic. Generous, strong, loving parents had given her a splendid education. She had responded to her happy upbringing in kind. A hardworking, lively intelligent girl, she had done well at school, always coming among the top of her class. She was well-mannered, considerate and charming, and, being an only child, learned to amuse herself. She was an avid reader and loved good music – in every way the perfect child. Until she reached her teens. Still hardworking and ambitious, but now moody, temperamental and a rebel, she flouted her parents’ authority on every occasion, slamming doors, screaming at the top of her voice for no apparent reason and disappearing for days on end. On her return, she would refuse to inform them where she had been. Indeed, she hardly communicated with them at all. Her mother bore this transformation in her adored daughter with true Anglo-Saxon stoicism, was patient, kind and tried to understand. Claire’s father, however, retreated, literally and metaphorically. He withdrew into a hurt silence and increasingly shut himself away in his study. Communication became a problem between all three. Claire conversed with her mother only in monosyllables, and when on rare occasions, Beatrice Jenner tried to elicit from her daughter what was troubling her, she became totally silent and would then disappear again for several days. Her mother would fret and then pretend that nothing had happened when Claire returned.

Her parents were not surprised when Claire announced that she would not be sitting her A levels, but instead was joining a group of friends on a trip to Turkey. Her mother was horrified, her father outraged, that their daughter should throw away her education and chance of university for a whim. Claire argued that a trip in a Land Rover exploring new lands would be an education in itself. But unchaperoned? There would be other girls, well, one other. And three men. But why not sit her exams and go in the summer? Because they were going now, and in any case, she didn’t want to go to university. She had no desire to teach, for God’s sake! Well, what did she want to do then? Beatrice made every effort to get through to her daughter. Her husband sat silently staring at the arrangement of dried flowers that occupied the hearth during the summer months.

‘I want to be an actress,’ Claire announced.

Both her parents were stunned. It was the first intimation they had ever had of it.

‘But you know nothing about acting or the theatre, dear,’ her mother had protested.

‘I don’t care. It’s what I want to do. It’s what I’m going to do.’

A strained argument followed, which continued through the evening. Eventually a compromise was reached. Claire would forgo Turkey. She would sit her exams, and her parents would pay for her to go to drama school. If she could get in, of course. Claire was jubilant. Her ruse had worked. Did they really think she would not sit her exams? She’d worked so damned hard for them. She was not about to be thwarted of the brilliant results she knew she would surely get. And she was going to drama school, a closely kept dream come true.

She had never told anyone about it, even her best friend, Debbie. Claire knew that her parents imagined that she was indulging in every vice known to man or woman when she disappeared for days on end. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She would go off into the country and hide away in a caravan belonging to Debbie’s aunt. They would go for long walks, revelling in the freedom, and work quietly at their A levels. Admittedly, Claire did feel the odd pang of guilt knowing that her mother would be worried about her, but she would quell it hurriedly. She half confided her dream of being an actress to Debbie, but didn’t reveal the whole truth. She casually mentioned that she might like to become a photographic model. Debbie was thrilled and lost in admiration. It sounded so glamorous and so unattainable. Claire shrugged it off as though it were unimportant, and decided not to tell anyone of her secret longing, not until it became a reality.

Claire’s mother, although initially shocked by her daughter’s revelation, comforted herself with the hope that perhaps all the pent-up emotion that seemed to be locked in Claire’s bosom would now find an outlet. And so it proved. Claire had sailed through her auditions and been accepted at one of the leading drama colleges. And she had done well there, too, winning the Shakespeare prize at the end of her three years. It had not been easy to get work when she left, but she had managed to attract the attention of an up-and-coming young director in a workshop she’d done for schools and filmed for television. It had been just the break she needed, getting into TV and innovative theatre work simultaneously. There followed a season with one of the more prestigious repertory companies. A critic whose opinion was respected tipped her as a young actress to watch. She was on her way. And then she met Roger.

It was three days since Claire had had her abortion. She had known at the time that it was probably the only sensible course. Roger no longer loved her – if indeed he had ever loved her. She had wanted the baby for his sake. A small thought had crept into the back of her mind. She had tried to brush it away, but it kept coming back. Had she wanted the baby just to keep Roger, to make Roger love her again? If so, his reaction could hardly have been worse.

‘Well, I hope you don’t think it’s mine,’ he had said furiously when she had broken the news to him.

Claire had looked at him stunned. ‘I haven’t slept with anyone else,’ she had cried. ‘I love you. Why should I want to fuck anyone else?’

‘Oh do try to be adult, Claire,’ Roger said baldly.

‘What do you mean “adult”? I trust you are not trying to tell me that you have fucked someone else?’

‘Well, of course I have.’

It had been said. There was a long frozen silence. She’d half suspected it for months. It wasn’t much of a shock, but it was numbing nevertheless. She felt icy inside. It explained everything – why he’d been ignoring her phone calls, his behaviour on the infrequent occasions they had been together. His lovemaking had been perfunctory; expert but almost clinical. Claire sat there appalled, not looking at him for ages.

Finally she said, ‘I’d better go.’

Roger had said nothing, but as she rose and picked up her things, he had fished inside his pocket and pulled out his cheque book. She had watched him, mesmerized, as he had written out a cheque for £500.

‘You’d better have it terminated,’ he said. He had not been able to bring himself to say the word ‘abortion’, she remembered. ‘This should take care of it.’

He handed the cheque to her. She’d taken it automatically, folding it and putting it away in her bag, hardly realizing what she was doing. She just wanted to get out of the room, away from him. She turned to go without saying a word.

As she reached the door, he said, ‘I hope you’ll be all right, Claire.’

She left the flat without looking back at him. She didn’t want his pity. She walked down the stairs and out of the main door in a dream. She never remembered driving away, only the pain in her chest, which was almost unbearable.

Sally re-entered the room bearing a tray.

‘You know, darling, what you need is a job. Here, try this. It’s not half bad.’

‘A job? I’m not fit for work,’ protested Claire feebly, shifting her limbs and hoisting herself up in the bed, to receive the soup.

‘Nonsense! If you were offered a part tomorrow, you’d be off like a shot, you know you would.’

Claire took the tray, before replying, ‘I suppose you’re right. I don’t know where I’d get the strength from, though. I feel as weak as a kitten.’

‘You look a bit like one, too. All sort of fluffy and vulnerable.’

Claire laughed in spite of herself. ‘I look a fright and you know it.’

‘That’s better,’ said Sally, smiling encouragingly. ‘It’s so lovely to hear you laugh.’ Claire turned away. ‘It will get better you know. It will take time, but it will get better.’ Sally laid her hands gently on top of Claire’s.

‘Yes, I know … I’ve been reading the book you bought yesterday. It’s beautifully written.’

‘I thought you’d like it.’

‘Absolutely no sex or violence.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Makes one believe in a better world.’

‘There’s one out there waiting for you.’

Silence.

Finally Claire looked up and said, ‘Sal, you’ve been wonderful to me. I’d never have got through this without you.’

‘That’s what friends are for,’ said Sally breezily. ‘Now what else are we going to watch tonight?’

‘There’s one of those Hollywood biblical epics on later,’ said Claire, glancing at the paper, which was amongst the reading matter strewn across the bed.

‘Oh good, I love those,’ said Sally gleefully. ‘They’re always good for a laugh and, boy, could we do with one. And then there’s all those lovely hunky men wandering around in their little skirts – it’ll do you good to see that there are some other good-looking men around, even if they are all in Hollywood.’

‘As this movie was made in 1954, most of them will be pushing seventy,’ observed Claire.

‘Now, now, no ageist remarks, please. What’s wrong with older men? Come to think of it, it’s what you need, a nice older man to look after you. Might treat you properly.’

‘Do they get any better as they get older?’ asked Claire doubtfully.

‘Not really,’ replied Sally, who prided herself on being an authority on the sex. ‘Usually a bit more reactionary. Oh, and their balls get bigger.’

‘Really?’ Claire giggled. ‘How do you know?’

‘It’s a well-known fact,’ said Sal airily.

‘I might give it a try in that case,’ replied Claire.

Sally smiled her approval. ‘That’s better, you’re sounding a bit more like your old self.’

‘I can’t be my old self, not without Rog,’ said Claire bleakly.

‘I mean your old self,’ Sally emphasized. ‘The one you were before you met Svengali.’

Claire looked up, surprised.

‘Oh yes,’ Sally continued, ‘you’ve no idea how that man dominated your life. What was the big attraction?’

Claire reflected for a moment. ‘Sex – initially. It had never been so good with anyone before.’

That night, after Sally had gone home, Claire lay in the dark, trying to sleep. Her mind unwillingly turned to thoughts of Roger. Whatever his faults, he was a considerate and thoughtful lover. She had been astounded the first time they had been in bed together. It had been at his flat after a photo session. First he had stroked her neck and shoulders gently, and kissed her softly, running his fingers lightly down her throat to her breasts, just brushing the tips of her nipples. He had caressed her, lovingly kissing her body all over, driving her wild with anticipation. The sudden unexpected violence of his entry into her drew from her a gasping scream, which seemed to spur him on. His bottom lip glistened with lust as he thrust into her. She had become frantic, when he had suddenly withdrawn and started licking her clitoris avidly. Then sucking on it. She moaned and begged him to fuck her. His eyes had narrowed and the gleam of white, even teeth showed, an indication that he was amused by her pleading. Then he had slapped her sharply on the face, telling her to shut up. He would fuck her in his own good time.

She came to expect more shows of violence from him. On occasions, he would tie her by the wrists and ankles to the corners of the bed, then make her wait for the sublime lovemaking she knew was to follow. After a while, he would kneel astride her face and slowly push his cock into her mouth. He would bring himself almost to the point of orgasm before suddenly stopping and masturbating her until she had reached the same point.

Other times, he would be waiting for her, naked. ‘Tie me up,’ he would say, as she started to undress, eyeing her hungrily. She would see that his erection was already huge. He would stand obediently while she tied him with his hands behind his back to the posts at the foot of the bed. She would take her scarf and blindfold him, then spend an intensely pleasurable half-hour tantalizing him. On her knees she would work her way up his legs with small kisses. As she arrived at his balls, she would see his cock jerk in anticipation of her touch. She would then leave him to wait. He would groan and beg her to continue. After a while, watching him writhe in anticipation, she would suddenly take his cock into her mouth, pushing his foreskin back with her lips. She enjoyed the power of being in control of him sexually on these occasions. After these bouts of titillation, their lovemaking would be frenetic and entirely satisfying, leaving them both exhausted.

Claire lay unblinking in the dark. He’d become bored with her. That was all. He had needed new stimulation, which she could no longer give him. She knew he had not wanted to make any sort of commitment, and had not expected any from her. The last thing he had wanted was for her to have a child. Claire wondered for the hundredth time how she had managed to get it all so wrong. She had thought he loved her. She realized how that she had mistaken lust for love. Well, she’d know better next time. Next time? How could there ever be a next time? She only wanted him. She would never be able to do all those things with anyone else. What she could not put from her mind was the thought that Roger was perhaps doing them at this moment with someone else.

Whoever she was, she couldn’t possibly give him all that she, Claire, had given him. Four years was a long time. He’d soon realize his mistake. He’d start to miss her and come back to her. With this reassuring thought, Claire finally drifted off to sleep.

3

‘What did you think of last night’s episode?’ Hugh Travis, the producer of The McMasters, tentatively put the question to his immediate superior, Martin Roberts. They were both seated at either side of Hugh’s desk, reading through the next batch of episodes. There was a considerable pause as Martin mulled it over.

Finally he said, ‘Not bad, not bad – a bit slow in places, perhaps, but on the whole, it was – er – well, it was – er –’

‘Crap!’ announced Larry Matthews from the doorway. Both men looked up startled. Larry swung into the room, clutching some scripts and a pair of spectacles in his hands. He closed the door behind him and flung himself into the nearest available chair. ‘Unmitigated crap!’ he informed the ceiling. ‘Weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable,’ he quoted for added effect.

The other two looked at each other. Hugh rolled his eyes heavenwards and shrugged his shoulders resignedly. He knew that Larry was right. His verdict was perhaps a little forceful, but he had a point. The series was becoming stale, predictable and – dare one even think it? – dull. Martin looked dismayed.

‘Oh dear, do you think so? I thought it had moments …’ he faltered. ‘Moments of …’

‘It had moments’, interrupted Larry, ‘of hitherto unplumbed depths of dreariness.’ Here he adopted an attitude of extreme languor. ‘That simply dreadful scene with those two elderly juveniles droning on at each other, boring the pants off me and, I imagine, the rest of the country!’

‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Martin genuinely puzzled.

‘I think he’s referring to Geoff and Bella,’ muttered Hugh. ‘Droning were they? It seemed quite a lively little scene to me,’ he added defensively.

‘Lively? Lively?’ Larry emitted a contemptuous snort. ‘It had about as much life as last week’s doughnuts!’

‘Why do you refer to them as “elderly juveniles”?’ persisted Martin.

Larry looked at him pityingly. ‘Because you know as well as I do that they’re both well into their middle years, yet they insist on prancing around like a couple of teenagers, Geoff in particular. Let’s face it, the succession of prepubescent pulchritude that has passed through these portals, over the last few years to enjoy the dubious pleasure of on-screen, and more often than not off-screen, amorous activities with our leading man, simply to pander to his vanity, has completely deballsed the series.’ He now had their undivided attention. ‘As I remember it, you, my venerable old friend,’ Larry was addressing his remarks to Hugh, ‘had a humdinger of an idea back in the dark ages, seven or eight years ago. A saga centred around a family business of fine arts, antiques, and paintings, the infighting, intrigue of the international art world, sibling rivalry, the struggle for power, at the core of which was a crumbling marriage and all the tensions attendant thereon …’

‘It was your idea, actually,’ Hugh interjected mildly.

Larry glanced at Hugh affectionately. ‘I seem to remember, you dear old thing, that you dreamed up this stunning scenario to provide a suitable showcase for the not inconsiderable talents of the love of your life, the then breathtakingly beautiful Bella – am I right, or am I right?’

There was a pause as the two men regarded each other across the desk.

‘Hot on the alliteration today, aren’t you?’ was all Hugh said.

‘Aren’t I though,’ replied Larry equably.

Martin shuffled his feel uneasily and adjusted his position in his chair. The conversation seemed to have drifted into emotional waters and Martin was feeling like the proverbial fish. He was well aware of Hugh’s abiding passion for Bella. As was Hugh’s wife, Mona. She had learned to live with it. She knew that by comparison with Bella, she was ordinary, the unkind might even say plain. She also knew that Hugh would never leave her. Bella knew it, too. She had been aware from the beginning that the series was a sort of consolation prize. Hugh was giving her all that he was able.

Bella had had a drink problem for some time, ever since she had realized that her career was not going to go the way she had hoped. She had wanted to be up there alongside the greats, among the great classical actresses of her generation. That’s why she had come into the profession. She was not able to put her finger on exactly what had gone wrong. But whatever it was, it had been compounded by seven years as the star of the most popular drama series of the decade, and the alcohol helped to blunt the keenness of the disappointment. She had been twice married and had had innumerable affairs, nearly always with younger men. Hugh had remained the constant element in her life, a sort of father confessor. They had long since ceased to have physical relations. For him, however, she had never ceased to hold an all-consuming fascination. He admired her undeniable talent, her husky beautifully modulated voice, her voluptuous good looks, but he loathed her drinking, not least because he knew he had contributed in part to her reliance on its dubious comfort.

‘We’ve lost the bite this show had at the beginning. The almost unbearable tension between warring husband and wife. The will-they-won’t-they-make-it situation. Everybody knows they won’t because he’s been floating around with a flotilla of fatuous floozies.’ Larry was getting into his stride. ‘And furthermore,’ he continued, ‘I have spent the morning wading my way through Episodes Ten and Eleven and I am now seized with an urgent desire to find a quiet corner somewhere and hang myself!’

The other two regarded him steadfastly and waited. They knew that this histrionic outburst was simply the prelude to an inspired suggestion. Larry would attack the problem in the most extreme terms and then quite casually supply the solution.

Larry Matthews’s position at South Eastern Television was unique. He was ostensibly PA to Hugh Travis, and responsible for the smooth running of the studios during recording days. But he had somehow managed to engineer himself into a position immediately behind Hugh’s right ear, and had a very large say in the casting, story lines and even budget allocation. He had been at drama college with Hugh twenty-five years previously, where they had become fast friends. When Hugh had reached his exalted position as Head of Series at SETV, Larry had suddenly turned up one day demanding a job. Acting, he had said, bored him. He needed a new challenge and it was absolutely certain that he, Hugh, was the man to provide it. It was true that Hugh was at that very moment in need of a personal assistant, a fact that he was quite sure Larry had somehow ferreted out for himself. They had gone off for a long luncheon together, during which Larry had poured out his heart to Hugh. His personal life, he confided, was in disarray. He needed a new start in life. He begged his old friend to give it to him. He was prepared to work his balls off for the chance. Hugh knew, looking at the intelligent good-looking face, now showing signs of age, that Larry would be as good as his word. He also knew he would make an invaluable assistant. As to what personal problems Larry might have, Hugh did not know and didn’t care to enquire. He had never been quite sure as to Larry’s sexual predilections – he had a feeling that he had possibly had a string of attachments of both sexes, but he let that pass. He gave him a job, and after a couple of minor successes together they had thought up and put on The McMasters, which was, and had been from the first episode, a smash hit. Hugh regarded him now with an amused tolerance. Larry had certainly breathed life into South Eastern Television. Things were never dull when he was around.

‘I take it you have a solution?’ Hugh said eventually, aware that Larry was waiting for a cue.

‘Of course,’ replied Larry languidly. ‘I’ve rewritten them,’ and he closed his eyes, as though the exertion of his labours had been too much for him.

‘I thought you might have,’ said Hugh mildly.

‘What’s Colin going to say?’ Martin looked perturbed.

‘Fuck Colin,’ replied Larry blithely. He opened his eyes and looked at them. ‘You’re the producers of the series, you’re the arbiters of taste, for God’s sake, and we all know that what has been served up in Episodes Ten and Eleven is nothing more or less than sentimental drivel!’

There was a longish pause, then Hugh said, ‘Right! Well, we’d better hear your rewrites then.’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ observed Larry dryly, as he sat up, put his half-glasses on the end of his nose and opened the first script. ‘That’ll teach me to take holidays,’ he muttered as he found the right page. ‘That load of twaddle that passed for “prime-time drama” last night was perpetrated when I was in San Francisco, of course. Ah, here we are. Now first of all I think I should mention I’ve introduced two new characters –’

‘You’ve done what?’ exploded Hugh, sitting bolt upright. This time Larry had gone too far.

‘Two new characters,’ repeated Larry patiently.

‘Without consulting me?’ Hugh was outraged.

‘I’m consulting you now,’ said Larry, unimpressed by Hugh’s outburst, ‘that’s why I’m here. This is the consultation.’

‘Have you any idea how much two new actors will cost the series? Yes, of course you have,’ said Hugh, answering his own question. ‘We’ve been over the budget together!’

‘I know exactly how much it will cost – and we solve the problem by losing two of the others.’

Throughout this exchange Martin had looked aghast and was incapable of speech.

‘Who do you suggest?’ asked Hugh, scarcely able to believe his ears.

‘Well, the appalling Patsy for one,’ Larry said, looking beadily at Hugh, whom, he noticed, had the grace to blush. ‘Crotch casting never works,’ Larry had stated bluntly at the time. ‘Then, there’s dear old Fred – he’s finding the going a bit rough. We could put him out to pasture – or not have him in the series quite so often,’ he added hurriedly, seeing their horrified faces. ‘Oh come on, girls, we’ve got a hit series on our hands here, which has at least another couple of years’ life in it. We’ve got to keep it up to scratch or, let’s face it, we won’t be asked back again. It’ll go down the pan at the end of the season.’

There was another silence as they considered the prospect.

‘All right,’ said Hugh, finally. ‘What’s your idea? Who are these newcomers?’

Larry looked at him over the top of his spectacles. ‘I want to put the cat among the pigeons,’ he said quietly. ‘A threat, a rival, a stunning young woman. She tries to steal Paul McMaster’s clients, his business, and, finally, his heart.’ There was another pause.

‘I like it,’ said Hugh simply. Martin nodded in agreement. Larry allowed himself a small smile. ‘And the other character?’ asked Hugh.

‘An American,’ said Larry, watching their faces closely. ‘A rich American playboy with a weakness for fine art, who falls for the new girl and decides to back her financially.’ And he sat back to watch their reactions. They both stared at him unblinking.

‘I like that, too,’ said Hugh sanguinely.

‘What do you think, Marty?’ demanded Larry cheekily.

‘I think you’d better read us your rewrites,’ was the quiet response.

‘Attaboy!’ said Larry enthusiastically, drawing his chair up to the table.

‘And then,’ said Hugh, ‘we’d better draw up a shortlist of possible actresses.’

‘And possible Americans,’ added Martin, determined not to be left out. ‘Quite a few live in this country, I believe.’

Larry delivered his final bombshell. ‘I thought we might import someone from Hollywood,’ he said airily. ‘Shall I start reading?’

4

Geoffrey Armitage stood in the untidy rambling kitchen of his spacious home. The face that featured so effectively in The McMasters, making millions of female hearts beat faster every Sunday evening between 7.45 and 8.40, was at this moment gazing with unseeing eyes at the deep yellow wall in front of him. The intensity of the colour offended him to the depths of his soul.

‘Why yellow?’ he had asked his wife, Sukie, as he stared aghast at the deep yellow ochre walls after they had just moved in.

‘It’s an optimistic colour,’ she had replied firmly. ‘It’ll be like waking up to a glorious sunrise every day.’

‘No it won’t, it’ll be like waking up inside a fried egg every day,’ he had retorted. He had worn sunglasses for a week as a mute protest. It seemed to him that the children’s noise at breakfast was amplified because of the relentlessly cheerful walls. He had stated his objections on numerous occasions, but his wife was unmoved, and the walls had stayed yellow through the ensuing years. Now he was waiting for the toaster to eject its load into the immediate vicinity, which he would deftly field. The toaster was ancient and erratic, and would either emit a sort of dull phut and produce two pieces of warm bread, or, after an interminable wait, suddenly and startlingly give an abrupt click and two scorched brittle objects would catapult ceilingwards. Geoffrey had a recurring daydream. He was sitting in a small ultra-clean, high-tech, white and red kitchen. In front of him, carefully laid out on the shining white and chrome table, were a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a large cup of steaming, freshly ground coffee and a plate of crisp bacon rashers, a perfectly poached egg and lashings of deep beige toast sodden with butter. A slim young blonde, wearing only a plastic apron, was ministering to his every need. There were no children present. At this moment, the kitchen door burst open and Nicky, his younger son, hurtled in. At the same time the toaster sprang into life and two blackened pieces of toast sailed through the air.

‘Bad luck, Dad,’ said Nicky, picking one up from the floor. ‘You’ve burned the toast again.’

‘I have not burned the toast again,’ his father emphasized. ‘The fucking toaster has burned the toast again.’

‘You shouldn’t swear, Dad. Mum doesn’t like it, she says you swear too much in front of us.’

‘Fuck your mother,’ muttered Geoff on his hands and knees, looking around for the second piece of toast.

‘It would be incest,’ observed Nicky knowledgeably, helping himself to a packet of Sugar Puffs from a cupboard.

‘What?’ said Geoff, startled, looking up abruptly and hitting his head on the table.

‘Oh no,’ groaned Nicky, examining a plastic container. ‘There’s no sugar!’

‘You don’t need sugar on Sugar Puffs!’ said Geoff, outraged.

‘Daad!’ wailed his son. ‘I always have sugar on them.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t. You’ll have false teeth by the time you’re twelve.’

‘Mum, there’s no sugar!’ said Nicky, with hands outstretched in a dramatic gesture to his mother, who had just come into the kitchen laden with a pile of dirty linen.

‘Yes there is, you just haven’t looked properly. Who gave that cat a piece of toast?’ she asked with interest.

Geoff sighed. The second piece had landed by the Aga. Brambles, the cat, positioned himself next to it every morning to keep warm and observe the family breakfast for any stray scraps of food that might drop to the floor. He was frankly disappointed with today’s offering and, after several attempts to chew his way through the outer crust, gave up, leapt up onto a worktop and settled himself comfortably next to the breadboard.

‘Get off!’ Geoff addressed the cat furiously. ‘Honestly, Sukes, it’s terribly unhygienic. That cat is encouraged to pollute our food.’ The cat in question gave him a look of cold contempt, leaped down to the floor, stalked across the kitchen in high dudgeon, broke wind and made an abrupt exit through the cat flap.

‘Ugh!’ Nicky exclaimed in disgust. ‘Brambles has farted! What a pong!’

‘Nicky,’ protested Sukie feebly.

Geoff decided to be firm. ‘Kindly get on with your breakfast and if you can’t say anything pleasant, don’t say anything at all – and you don’t need that.’ He deftly removed the sugar packet that Sukie had obligingly found and put on the table. He crossed to the kettle, which had just boiled, and poured water onto instant coffee in a cracked mug.

‘Is it a studio day?’ asked Sukie. ‘I’ve lost track.’

‘No, it is not a studio day,’ Geoff said with elaborate politeness. ‘It is a read-through day. We are reading through the next two episodes.’

‘Well, let’s hope to God they’re better than last Sunday’s horror,’ said Sukie calmly.

‘Thank you for those few words of encouragement and support,’ replied Geoff satirically, after a brief pause. ‘I appreciate your keen interest in my work and I’m gratified to learn that you rate my talent as an actor so highly.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with your talent as an actor,’ she retorted. ‘I’m just saying that the episode was bloody awful, that’s all.’

Nicky decided he could make a useful contribution to the conversation. ‘Timpson Minor said it was stupid,’ he said, then clapped a hand over his mouth, realizing that ‘stupid’ could hardly be classified as ‘pleasant’ and said hurriedly, ‘His sister loves it. She’s six.’

‘That’s about the age group it’s aimed at,’ Sukie agreed. ‘And as for that bimbo what’s her name, Patsy? Yes, Patsy Hall. Where on earth did they find her?’

Geoff lowered his head to hide the fact that he was blushing furiously. He had been having an intermittent fling with Patsy ever since she’d joined the series. He was aware that she was totally talentless, but she smelt, felt and tasted delightful. He decided to employ double bluff tactics.

‘Oh come on, she’s not that bad.’

‘She’s appalling.’ Sukie poured herself some tea. ‘She can’t act, she can’t move, she can’t speak and, worst of all, she has absolutely no class!’

‘I think she’s one of Hugh’s mistakes,’ Geoff said lamely.

‘I really think you should have a word with Hugh. He may be losing his grip.’

‘Have I met him?’ asked Geoff, abruptly changing the subject and addressing his son – ‘this Timpson turd?’

‘Geoff,’ Sukie remonstrated.

‘No, Dad, his parents are very rich. I’d hardly bring him back here, would I?’ asked Nicky, giving his father a pitying look.

‘Oh that’s nice, isn’t it? Are you suggesting that your home is not good enough for turdfeatures Timpson?’ enquired Geoff icily.

‘Geoffrey, please,’ interposed Sukie.

‘Dad,’ said his son calmly, ‘if you can’t say anything pleasant, don’t say anything at all.’

‘I shall say what I bloody well please,’ said Geoff venomously. ‘You can tell Timpson Minor from me that I think he’s a pain in the arse.’

‘Who’s a pain in the arse?’ panted Ben, as he came in through the back door clad in running gear. ‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Hello, Ben,’ said his father, surprised. Ben was fifteen and as laid-back as Nicky was energetic. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I live here, remember?’ replied his son easily.

‘I meant, why aren’t you at school, and what are you doing in your tracksuit?’

‘Marathon practice,’ replied Ben briefly. ‘Who’s a pain in the arse?’

‘Ben,’ said Sukie sternly.

Nicky filled him in. ‘I was telling Dad that Timpson Minor thought Sunday’s episode of The Old Bastards was stupid.’

‘Nicky!’

‘Well yes,’ said Ben, ‘but he only said that because Timpson Major said it.’

‘Who the hell do these Timpsons think they are?’ Geoff asked in a voice rising with sarcasm and disbelief. ‘Are they experts in the field of the television dramatic critique or what?’

‘No, of course not, Dad,’ replied Ben equably, ‘but on this point you must admit it’s a fair assessment.’

‘Did you see Sunday’s episode?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I never watch it, Dad, you know that. They all watch it at school. Unfortunately.’

‘I saw it,’ said Sukie, still thinking of Patsy. ‘It stank!’

Geoff looked stunned for a moment. Then, with all the dignity he could muster, he said, ‘Did it? Did it indeed? Well, I should like to point out to you all that this stinking programme pays the mortgage, buys the food, provides for your future, supplies your sports equipment, pays for your holidays …’

‘Feeds the cat,’ Nicky suggested helpfully.

Geoff glared at him. ‘Feeds the cat,’ he conceded. ‘Er, buys, er …’

‘Buys Mum’s clothes,’ prompted Nicky, determined to help his father out.

Sukie glanced down at her fading jeans and sagging tee shirt. ‘What clothes?’ she asked.

‘Thank you, I can manage to quote from this litany of advantages without your assistance,’ Geoff remarked to Nicky. Then, turning to his wife, he said, ‘Are you aware that there is a pile of dirty washing in the middle of the floor?’

Sukie regarded the offending heap with mild interest. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I was going to ask you if you could add a laundry service to your list of things that that crass TV series makes possible?’

‘Crass?’ enquired Geoff politely.

‘What’s crass?’ asked Nicky.

‘Oh come on, Geoff, you must admit it is pretty dire.’

Geoff rose to his feet without a word and left the kitchen.

‘Nice one, Mum,’ observed Nicky.

‘What are you going to eat, Ben?’ asked his mother.

‘Beans on toast,’ replied Ben immediately, ‘but I’ll get it.’

‘Can I have some?’ chimed in Nicky.

Geoff reappeared carrying a script and a jacket. ‘I am going out now,’ he announced. ‘I may be some time. I am, in fact, about to make the same sort of heroic gesture as that remarkable man Captain Lawrence Oates. I am going to compromise my integrity, jeopardize my career, sacrifice my dignity – it’s a form of suicide, I think you’ll agree – and all for the sake of my family – to whom I am devoted – to ensure their survival. In other words, I am going to attempt a read-through of this crass, stupid, nay dire television series – which stinks and of which I am happy and proud to be the figurehead. You must excuse me – duty calls.’ And so saying he opened the back door and swept out.

There was a brief silence as the little group remaining in the kitchen went about their business. Ben proceeded to heat up some baked beans and cook two perfectly golden brown pieces of toast, one for Nicky, one for himself. Sukie poured herself a second cup of tea. After a moment or two, Brambles thrust a tentative head through the cat flap. Having ascertained that the coast was clear, the rest of him followed and he walked confidently in, made straight for the breadboard and settled himself down comfortably beside it, paws tucked beneath him.

‘I think you could have been a bit more circumspect about the laundry service, Mum,’ Ben said.

‘What’s circumspect?’ asked Nicky.

‘Well, it is a dreadful show,’ said Sukie defensively. ‘It used not to be, but it’s become just dull and improbable, which sounds like a paradox, I suppose …’

‘What’s a paradox?’ asked Nicky.

‘What it needs,’ continued Sukie, ‘what it really needs, is an injection of new blood, a bit of life – a new character. And to get rid of the ghastly Patsy,’ she added savagely under her breath.